


An Incredibles Christmas

by deavors



Category: Incredibles (Pixar Movies)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Gen, Just a whole lotta family fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 13:28:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17060651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deavors/pseuds/deavors
Summary: The Incredibles celebrate Christmas Eve together, but not everything is perfect in the Parr household.





	An Incredibles Christmas

It was around noon on December twenty-fourth, and Helen Parr stood back a ways from the Christmas tree, frowning, her mouth covered by splayed fingers. Displayed in their living room, the false evergreen tree was a handsome one indeed: frosted with fake snow, wrapped round and round with tinsel and multicolored lights, and decorated with ornaments. But Helen couldn’t stop frowning.

Sitting nearby in his comfortable living chair with a newspaper splayed in front of him and square glasses falling down his nose, Bob Parr lowered the paper briefly to glance at Helen. “What’s wrong, hon? It’s a beautiful tree.”

Helen didn’t remove her hand from her mouth, so her words were muffled when she spoke. Her frowning eyes didn’t leave the tree; its lights winked and shone. “I don’t know, I just think I’ve forgotten something. I can’t shake the feeling.”

Suddenly, she reached upwards. Due to her uncanny stretching ability, Helen didn’t even have to move in order to reach to the very top of the tree, where she absentmindedly adjusted the star that teetered there, moving it about a quarter-inch to the left. She stretched back to her normal arm’s length and kept frowning.

Bob chuckled quietly and returned to his paper. “Staring isn’t gonna fix it, honey. You’re not gonna intimidate the tree into submission.”

“Yeah, well, what else can I do?” she demanded, exasperated. “All I can do is keep staring and hope I realize what’s screwy.”

“I’m telling ya, honey, nothing’s screwy. You’re imagining things…”

“No I’m not,” she snapped, more forcefully than she’d intended. She immediately calmed herself, closing her eyes. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just, with a three-course dinner to plan, and presents to wrap, and a pie to bake, and everything… I’m feeling a little overworked. And now this tree business…”

Bob set his paper down in his lap, looking at his wife with concern. “Not to be a sap, but Christmas is supposed to be about family and fun. I don’t want you to feel stressed out. If you need help, all you have to do is ask.”

Helen exhaled. “Nah, I’m okay, sweetie. Really, I am. Besides,” and she stretched over and gently patted his cheek, “we both know you can’t cook.”

“Hey, I make a pretty mean waffle!” he protested lightly.

“Okay, sure, we’ll have _waffles_ for Christmas dinner.” She headed out of the living room into the adjacent kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “The kids’ll be home from their shopping trip soon. I’m gonna get started on the turkey.”

“Promise not to burn anything?” Bob called teasingly after her, and received a dish towel thrown at him for his troubles.

 

About half an hour later, Bob had conked out on the plush living room chair, having vague but delightful dreams about his glory-days exploits as a superhero: saving the world, adoring groupies, cameras and mics shoved in his face… heaven. He was awakened by the sound of the nearby front door squeaking open and his bickering children shouting at each other. Bob jerked awake from his slumber, snorting awkwardly.

In their previous home, the front door hadn’t been anywhere near the living room, and the living room hadn’t been near the kitchen… in fact, Winston Deavor’s loaned home was so large, pretty much no room was near another one. After basically destroying that house (which Bob and Helen had profusely apologized for—Winston had told them “Don’t worry about it” what felt like several thousand times), they had moved into a suburban home that was slightly more attuned to their tastes. As in, smaller. A _lot_ smaller. Homier, too—none of that crazy advanced technology business. In their new home, the Parrs actually had to _flick_ their light switches, instead of simply saying “Lights on.” The difference was like moving from the year 2100 into caveman times. And they wouldn’t have had it any other way.

So, sitting in his chair in the living room nearby to the TV, a sofa and the twinkling Christmas tree, Bob was able to watch as his kids opened the front door and entered the house, both wearing heavy winter coats, and shoving and shouting at each other, as usual.

“ _I_ wanted to buy the toy cars—”

“Be real, you numbskull, what’s Dad gonna do with _toy_ _cars_? You’re so immature—”

“We could play with ’em together, you stinky turdwad!”

“Don’t you call me a—”

“Hey, hey, kids!” Bob yelled over the din. “Easy! It’s Christmas, can’t you two make peace for five minutes?”

“Violet wasted all our money!” Dash shouted at the top of his lungs before disappearing in a blur of color; distantly, his bedroom door could be heard slamming.

Violet rolled her eyes as far as they’d roll, before pulling the stroller carrying their baby brother into the house and shutting the door behind her.

“How was the weather, honey?”

“Okay,” Violet muttered, unzipping her coat and hanging it up on the nearby hook, and kicking off her winter boots, too; in the stroller, under several layers of blankets, Jack-Jack began to coo. Coat and boots off, Violet crossed her arms and stared at her dad intensely. “Look, Dad, I _didn’t_ waste all the money you gave me. Dash only wanted to buy stupid stuff and I saved Christmas from being terrible. Now you know the truth.”

“Hey, calm down, hon,” Bob cautioned. “It’s not a big deal. We’ll appreciate whatever you got us. I just wish you guys would stop fighting.”

His daughter scoffed, reaching into the stroller and retrieving her baby brother. “Yeah, like that’s ever gonna happen.”

“If you could just be peaceful for a few days,” Bob pleaded, feeling a little lost, “just for Christmas. It’ll make your mom and me happy.”

“Maybe if Dash wasn’t such a pain in the—”

“Language!” came Helen’s pre-emptive shout from the kitchen.

Violet rolled her eyes again and stalked forward, plunking her brother down in her father’s lap. “Sometimes I wish I was an only child,” she announced before stomping off towards the hallway leading to her bedroom.

Bob sighed, staring down at his happy, giggling baby son. Why couldn’t they all be like Jack-Jack? _He_ didn’t hate anybody.

Picking up his youngest child, Bob meandered towards the kitchen, where he stood in the doorway, contentedly watching Helen bustle to and fro. His wife was a master of cooking, and it seemed like twenty pots and pans were steaming and bubbling at once. On the counter next to the stove rested several glass containers of vegetables, already ready for the next evening’s feast.

“Everything smells divine,” he appreciatively told Helen. “Is that turkey I smell?”

“You know it,” replied Helen as she stirred a pot of mashed potatoes; her red hair had gone frizzy in the heat and moisture of the kitchen. “My old family recipe.”

He lifted a finger. “And is there—?"

“A gallon of butter in the potatoes? You wanna bet,” she grinned. “And on the veggies too.”

Bob smiled in response. “Sounds like it’s gonna be an amazing Christmas.” But his smile faded. “I just wish those two would get along. You know?”

“Yeah, I know,” she sighed. “But I’m not too worried about it. Their arguments are just superficial, you know, honey. They don’t have disagreements on anything that really matters."

Bob frowned. “And that makes you _happy_?”

Helen shrugged, still stirring. “I mean, they may argue about silly things, sure—but in the end, they have each other’s backs when it really matters. That’s why I’m not worried, Bob. Deep down I know they love each other.” She stretched over with her free hand and playfully bumped his arm. “Kinda like you and me, huh?”

“Yeah, you’re right. They always work it out in the end.” He huffed. “I just wish there didn’t have to be so much _yelling_.”

“Hey, there’s only eighteen-ish years left until we’re empty nesters, right?” Helen reminded him, smiling wryly. “Savor it while it lasts.”

 

Later that evening, Helen was done cooking. Everything for tomorrow night’s Christmas feast was prepared, except for the turkey, which was still roasting in the oven; it would have to continue cooking overnight, but when it was finished, Helen’s whole family swore her turkeys were the best thing since sliced bread. That woman _really_ knew how to cook.

Helen went down the hallway to their children’s rooms, calling, “Vi, Dash, come on—time to decorate the tree.” With much moaning and groaning, the kids did eventually emerge and come out to the living room, where Bob was waiting with a few very special cardboard boxes dug out from the basement. The tree was already decorated with lights and tinsel and generic round ornaments, but it was a Parr family tradition to add their own special decorations: mostly small craft projects the kids had made when they were younger, but also some mementos from the glory days.

Nearby in his baby seat, Jack-Jack cooed and fussed while the older Parrs surrounded the tree, picking ornaments out of the boxes and hanging them on the tree’s branches. Dash was wearing a hideous, multicoloured Christmas sweater with an ugly image of Jesus and the words “Birthday Boy” knit upon it, which was probably the most sacrilegious thing in the Parr house. He zipped around the tree with his trademark supersonic speed, hanging ornaments at a superhuman pace. Bob—who had spent all of thirty seconds carefully positioning a papier-mâché Christmas tree made by Violet when she was seven—chuckled fondly. “Dash, could you slow down for once? You’re making the rest of us slowpokes look bad.”

“It’s just ’cuz you’re old!” the blur that was Dash Parr replied, as he zoomed back to the cardboard box and grabbed yet another ornament.

He stopped beside his sister, tilting his head and staring quizzically at the ornament Violet was hanging: a shimmery green glass angel that was unfamiliar to Bob. “What’s that? Where’d ya get that?” Dash demanded.

“Leave me alone,” his sister muttered.

In the blink of an eye Dash snatched the ornament from her hands. “C’mon, what is this dumb thing?”

Violet sputtered indignantly and turned purple. “That _dumb_ _thing_ is really important to me, so knock it off, twerp!”

Everyone in the room could tell by the eldest Parr child’s harsh tone that she meant business. Helen said sternly, “Dashiell Robert Parr, give your sister back that ornament.”

Dash handed the ornament back to his sister, muttering something that might’ve been, “Sorrydidntknowitwasthatspecial.”

Violet snatched it from his hands, scowling. “Yeah, well, it is.”

“Just out of curiosity, what _is_ that ornament?” Bob inquired pleasantly. “I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”

Violet bent her head so that her long black hair concealed her face, becoming very intently focused on a certain tree branch, where she affixed the angel carefully. “It’s from Tony,” she said. “It’s his gift to me. Y’know. For Christmas.”

“Wow, isn’t that nice,” said Bob, at the same moment as Dash announced triumphant, “Ha! I _knew_ it was from Tony Loaf!"

“Don’t _call_ him that, you little cockroach,” snapped Violet, turning on her brother forcefully.

“Hey!” Helen yelled sharply. With the use of her elasticity, she craned her neck around the tree so that she could glare at her bickering children. “Come on, kids, it’s Christmas Eve. _Enough_.”

“Hey, I’m just exercising my natural curiosity here,” Dash protested.

“No, you were being an obnoxious twerp,” Violet muttered.

“Hey, don’t call me an obn—ob— don’t call me a twerp!”

“I’ll call you whatever you want, you rancid b—”

“Shut up!”

“You shut up!”

A dismayed Bob watched the next ten seconds’ events unfold in slow motion. He knew Dash only meant to grab a candy cane ornament from the tree to use as a makeshift weapon against his sister, but as he yanked it free from the tree branch from which it hung, the ornament disrupted other ornaments around it—including Violet’s gift from her boyfriend. A few cloth-knit novelty elf ornaments fell and bounced harmlessly off the ground, but the glass angel’s trajectory was tragic. Bob watched it trace an arc through the air, and it shattered on their wooden floor.

For a moment they all hung suspended in time, staring at the remains of the glass. Helen rushed around the tree, glaring at Dash. “Okay, you’d better grab a broom and sweep that mess up _right_ now, young man. Don’t miss a single shard. That’s dangerous.”

Dash zoomed off to the kitchen to retrieve a dustpan. Bob could see tears prickling at the corner of Violet’s eyes. He went over to her, stepping carefully over the remains of the angel, and put a gentle arm around her shoulders. “He didn’t mean to do it, honey. Don’t sweat it. This doesn’t have to ruin Christmas.”

“It’s already ruined,” Violet blurted. A moment later, she was invisible—except for her clothes, suspended uncannily in the air—and pushed Bob’s arm away, heading off towards the direction of the bedroom. Bob watched her go in dismay.

Helen went over and stood beside her husband, hand on her hip and frown lines scored between her eyebrows. “This isn’t _exactly_ how I wanted Christmas Eve to go…” she said dryly.

“Aw, jeez. My one Christmas wish was for them to get along, and now this?” Bob uttered in frustration, passing his hand over his eyes. “God hates me.”

Helen chuckled and placed a cool hand on his burly arm. She had always grounded him, and today was no different; her touch was like being brought back to Earth, being reminded that in the grand scheme of things, everything really would be okay. “When Dash gets back here— _if_ he ever comes back here—I think you’d better have a little talk with him,” she advised her husband. “Huh?”

“Yeah,” Bob said tiredly. “I think so, too.”

 

Not long afterward, Dash had swept up all the glass shards under Helen’s careful supervision. She then made herself scarce into the kitchen, leaving Dash and Bob alone. Dash sat on the living room chair, scowling at nothing with short jean-clad legs dangling towards the ground, while Bob sat on the nearby sofa, leaning forward with his hands clasped in his lap, and staring at his son with concern in his eyes.

“Dash, you didn’t do anything _really_ bad,” he cautioned. “I just want you to know that. You’re not in big trouble or anything, I just wanna talk to you.”

“But I _am_ in trouble,” Dash muttered, still staring anywhere but Bob’s eyes.

“Well, no, not really,” Bob admitted. “I’m not going to punish you. I know you didn’t mean to break that ornament. But I _can’t_ say that I don’t think you had any bad intentions, because I think we both know that’s not true. Right?” he prodded when Dash didn’t respond.

“Yeah,” said Dash quietly, still scowling and looking like he wanted to be anywhere but here.

Bob decided to revert to an old tactic. “You’ve upset your mother, you know, young man,” he said quite sternly.

Dash glanced up at him, actually looking afraid. “I have?” he asked fearfully.

“Yes. And—oh, for god’s sake.” In exasperation, Bob rolled his eyes at himself. “I shouldn’t have said that. This isn’t about your mother and me, this is about you and Violet.”

“What about her?” Dash demanded, suddenly defensive. “She’s just rude and mean all the time. It’s ’cuz she’s a girl and she’s got hormones and puberties and stuff.”

“No, that’s not it. You had some responsibility in what happened tonight, and I think you know that.”

Dash looked down again, chagrined. “Yeah… I messed up. I shouldn’t have pushed her like I did.” He looked hopefully at his father. “Can I go to my room now?”

“Dash,” Bob said gently, “the goal is for all of us to sit around the tree and open a few presents tonight. You know— _peacefully_. Goodwill towards men, and all that. _And_ sisters.”

“But she hates me,” Dash protested.

“No, I don’t think that’s true. Not at all.” Remembering what Helen had told him a few hours before, Bob confidently said, “You two may have your differences, but when it comes down to it, you love each other. Right?”

“Yeah…”

“And you love each other enough to admit when you messed up and apologize. _Right_?” Bob said with a little more force behind his words this time, leaning forward and staring intently at his son.

“Yeah,” said Dash resignedly, “I guess.”

“Good. Now, I want you to go to your sister’s room and tell her you’re sorry. Be serious about it, Dash. No rushing in and blurting “I’m sorry!” and then running right back out. Tell her you know what you did wrong, describe the offense, and then apologize. Can you do that for me?” _And_ _for_ _the_ _sake_ _of_ _a_ _peaceful_ _Christmas_? he aadder hopefully in his head.

Dash nodded. “Yeah, I’ll do it.”

Bob wasn’t the best reader of people—including and especially his own awesome, amazing, constantly-perplexing kids—but he believed Dash was being sincere. “Okay, then go on,” he said fondly, reaching over to ruffle his son’s blonde hair, so like his own.

In an instant, Dash zoomed off, so quickly that Bob was hardly able to track his movement. He still didn’t a hundred percent trust his son to offer an honest and thoughtful apology, though, so Bob followed him down the nearby darkened hallway to Violet’s room, intending to listen in on the ensuing conversation. Just to be sure.

 

“Come on, go _away_ , you twerp! Leave me alone.”

“Naw, look, Violet, I really mean it. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what? You don’t even know what you did wrong!” Violet snapped.

Dash sounded like he was making a marked effort to be calm and polite, and Bob was proud of him for it. “Yeah, I know I broke Tony’s gift and stuff… that was pretty bad of me.”

“It was our anniversary present _and_ a Christmas gift. He picked it out especially for me. And you ruined it for no reason.” Bob heard a thump, and Violet’s next words were muffled, like her face was pressed into a pillow. “Like you ruin everything.”

Dash was silent for a few moments, and Bob feared he’d given up. But then, the ten-year-old hesitantly spoke again. “You remember… when we were fighting that awesome giant robot thing?”

“I would hardly call it _awesome_.”

“You remember?” Dash pressed. “When I was gonna be crushed and you came and saved me with your force field?”

“Yeah…” his elder sister said suspiciously.

“Well, I’d do that for you a million times,” he said with sincere honesty. “I don’t even care if I’d die or get hurt or whatever, I’d come and save you without even thinking or anything. You’d do the same for me, because you’re my sister and I’m your brother and that’s what really matters, that we’ll always come save each other. Right?”

Bob blinked in surprise; he hadn’t expected this from Dash. From the silence coming from the bedroom, he assumed Violet was doing the same. When she finally spoke, she sounded wary, but a little warmer than before. “And what does this have to do with you breaking my ornament?”

“I’m sorry,” Dash said humbly. “I shouldn’ta done it—bothered you the way I did, I mean. I screwed up and forgot what’s really important. It’s Christmas, we shouldn’t fight. We’re making Mom and Dad upset, anyway. Will ya just come on out to the living room and forgive me already? Oh!” he exclaimed as though he’d forgotten something important. “And I’ll give you ten bucks from my allowance to buy a new angel if you want. If that’ll make it better, I mean. ’Cuz I know it was important to you, an’ everything.”

Bob heard Violet chuckle quietly. “Thanks. That means a lot. It does, really. I know you’re saving up for new high tops.”

”Yeah, I am,” Dash said with the distinct sound of shuffled feet, “but this is more important right now.”

Violet sighed. “I’m gonna miss that angel, but it’s not the end of the world. I forgive you. And you’re right—there _are_ more important things right now.”

“Like what?”

“Like this.” A loud metallic boom, and Dash was yelling “Hey!” as Violet scampered past Bob out of the bedroom down the hallway, giggling loudly to herself; she didn’t even notice her father was there.

Dash emerged from the room, scowling and hair rumpled, and turned his frown on his dad. “You happy now? She force fielded me! Right in the face!”

Bob laughed and clapped his son on the back. “You know what? I think that means you’re forgiven.”

 

The Parr family sat around the living room, their Christmas tree twinkling and glimmering in the window. As per the Parr family custom, they would all get to open one gift on Christmas Eve. Dash was playing Santa, retrieving carefully-wrapped gifts from under the tree and bestowing them upon his family members. Bob and Helen were sitting on the sofa, arms wrapped around each other; Jack-Jack was snugly napping in his father’s lap. Violet sat on the armchair, and Dash plopped a very shoddily-wrapped present in her lap.

“This is for you from me.”

“Wow,” Violet said sarcastically as she picked apart the very visible tape holding the wrapping paper together. “So thoughtful.”

“Yup,” Dash said proudly, apparently oblivious to the sarcasm.

Opened, the Christmas gift revealed a small plastic package covered with bright lettering. Violet held it up to the light and her eyes widened. Bob and Helen craned their necks, wondering what kind of gift Dash had bought for his sister _this_ year. Last year, he’d gift-wrapped a bottle of Helen’s Midol and presented it to Violet. Screaming ensued on both ends. Bob certainly didn’t want to witness a repeat of that incident.

His fears were unfounded. Violet smiled at the present. “A bunch of plastic hair bands,” she said appreciatively. “You really got these for me?”

“If it’s your name on the label…” Dash muttered, scuffing the floor with his sneaker, suddenly seeming resentfully embarrassed.

“Wow, that’s shockingly thoughtful. Especially from you.” Unexpectedly, she leaned over and enfolded her brother in a hug. “Thanks, Dash.”

Bob glanced at Helen with a smile, which she returned. Then, suddenly, Helen’s smile disappeared. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “I know what’s missing from the tree. Nobody open any presents without me!” With that, she fled the living room; Bob heard the distant sounds of her feet tramping downstairs.

Within a minute, Helen had returned, holding a dusty old cardboard box. “What’s that, honey?” Bob questioned as Helen set the box down on the floor beside the Christmas tree and knelt beside it, rooting around inside.

She shot a glance and a lopsided smile in his direction. “Just a little something special.”

What she lifted from the box made Bob gasp out loud. A long wire string, from which hung dozens of… empty bullet casings.

“Are those the…?” Bob demanded in delight.

“…bullets that bounced off your chest,” confirmed Helen with a grin.

“Bullets?” said Violet, arching an eyebrow skeptically. “ _That’s_ not very Christmas-y.”

“I didn’t think so either,” Helen admitted. “At least, not after you were born. Before then, we used to hang these guys all around the tree every year, just like the lights. It was a Parr Christmas tradition. But when we started having kids, well, I kind of thought, who wants a Christmas tree hung with bullets, especially not with little children around? What kind of influence is that? It’s so violent, and dark, and—”

“And _cool_!” Dash interjected.

“It’s not polite to interrupt,” Helen said in her patented Mom Voice. “Anyway, when you were around three, Violet, I put my foot down. No more hanging the tree with bullets.” She exhaled. “I wanted a normal life, and _normal_ didn’t include celebrating our heroic exploits. But now… things are different. These past few Christmases, I’ve started to actually miss having these darn bullets strung up around our tree. They remind me of…”

“Good times?” Bob asked, quirking an eyebrow and grinning.

“ _Very_ good times,” Helen conceded with a chuckle. “Aw, kids, you should’ve seen your father in action back in our prime. In our golden days, he was a machine.”

“Hey! I’m still a machine!” her husband protested.

“Of course you are, sweetie,” she said kindly. “But back in the day… man oh man. The shots went flying. Robbers, thieves, terrorists, every type of criminal, you name it. They all whipped out their guns and shot at Mr. Incredible, and the looks on their faces when their bullets just bounced away!” Helen laughed loudly.

“Sounds like a pretty morbid thing to celebrate,” said Violet dryly.

“Morbid? Yeah, I guess a little,” Helen admitted.

“Morbid _and_ narcissistic…” Violet continued, not sounding too enthused.

“And cool!” cried Dash yet again. He zoomed up to his mother, taking the string of bullets in his own hand and marvelling at the casings. “Wow. These all bounced off your chest, Dad?” he demanded, staring at his father with wide-eyed awe.

Bob felt a surge of pride at his son’s admiration. “Yup,” he said proudly. “Actually, my collection’s a lot bigger than that. I keep a whole jar of ’em on my desk in the den.”

“Wow! Can I see?”

“Sure, I’ll show you sometime. Y’know, every bullet has a story. I could tell you all of them.”

“But not right now,” said Helen pointedly. “Right now, I wanna get these stung around the tree. Vi, could you help me?”

Vi obediently rose from her seat and went to assist her mother. Together, and with the help of Helen’s elastic arms, they had the bullet-string wrapped around the tree in minutes. They stepped back, and the family of five regarded the tree together.

“It’s definitely not a normal family tradition,” Violet said, and Bob couldn’t read the tone of her voice.

“You’re right,” said Helen neutrally. “It isn’t.”

Bob spoke up. “Sweetie, I’m just curious. What made you change your mind?”

Helen turned to him, smiling slightly. In the dim, shimmering incandescence of the Christmas tree lights, she was more beautiful than ever. “I’m just tired of pretending we’re something we’re not. I can’t explain it. But… we’re _supers_. We’re never going to be a normal family, so, heck, why should we have normal Christmas ornaments? And why shouldn’t we celebrate our accomplishments? I’m stretchy, you can’t be hurt by guns… we made one heck of a team back in the day.”

“Still do,” Bob amended.

“Still do,” Helen agreed, smiling at her husband.

Violet, who was still staring at the tree, finally conceded, “It _is_ kind of cool. It’s not the most normal thing in the world, sure, but who wants to be average?” She grinned at her father. Violet’s smiles were so rare, and receiving one made Bob feel warm in his chest. “I’d rather have a dad who deflects bullets than a normal family, anyway.”

Bob smiled back at his daughter. “Glad to hear it, honey.”

“Hey, why aren’t we opening presents?” Helen demanded. “Let’s keep this going!”

The Parrs all sat back down, except for Dash, who continued playing Santa, handing out gifts to the family members. Tomorrow they’d open all their presents and gorge themselves on Christmas turkey and vegetables and Helen’s homemade pie, but for tonight, Bob was happy with just a few simple pleasures. A warm and cozy home, with his family all around him, his son asleep in his lap, the laughter of his children, his wife’s warm body pressed against him contentedly, and a Christmas tree decorated with bullets.

It may not have been normal, but it was a very Parr Christmas, and that was what counted.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas and happy holidays to all! :)


End file.
